PMS 02

Chapter-02

“Allen.”

The place where the massive crystal orb stood was the Lord’s Chamber of Prophecy —
the meeting hall of the family, and also its reception room.

The room was dark, lit only by the soft, faint glow emitted from that enormous orb.
And at the very top, at the height of the crystal sphere, sat the head of the family.

Belmond Lasarc.
The current patriarch of the Lasarc House, a lineage of seers guiding the kingdom’s future.

He bore deep shadows beneath his eyes — a face so weary he looked liable to collapse from exhaustion at any moment.

“Yes, Father.”

“Come closer. I can barely hear you.”

“As you wish.”

But that weariness was not directed at me.
I could tell from the faint aura and mana radiating from him.

He had become like this through countless prophecies.
If anything, he seemed pleased to see me.

“I hear you’ve done something interesting.”

“Not really. I merely made a prophecy.”

“But through that prophecy, you altered the present — and the dark future you saw no longer exists. That’s the greatest thing a prophet can achieve.”

“…Thank you, Father.”

“No need to thank this worthless old man.”

Despite his great fame, Belmond was not arrogant or domineering.
He was simply worn down by years of prophecy, feeling guilt over traditions that forced his family to live by fate rather than will.

I hadn’t understood before.
But now, after living a whole life and returning — I knew.

Belmond, too, was a victim of this family of prophets.

“No, Father. You could never be worthless.”

“What kind of father drives his children into political strife… Still, today feels good.”

He waved his hand over the crystal orb.
Then an image shimmered within — a man being dragged away in chains.

It was the family tutor, Makkel.
Judging from the image, it wasn’t the present but a near and certain future.

“Do you see? Thanks to you uncovering Makkel’s crimes, we’ve managed to arrest him.”

“It was only luck.”

“Hah, but luck is also a kind of skill. Do you know how rare it is to have a moment like this — just a father and son talking alone?”

A prophet calling luck a skill — I couldn’t help but stare blankly at him.
Belmond beamed, looking around to ensure no one else was listening, then whispered conspiratorially:

“There’s no pretext, you see — no reason!”

“…Is that so.”

“Yes! Finally, I have a clear excuse to summon you, my son.”

He repeated his words to himself — my son.

“Yet I have dozens, hundreds of sons I’ve never even seen. I’m no breeding stallion, am I? It’s like looking at strangers.”

“Please don’t say that.”

“Enough! Let’s skip the sentimental talk. First, let me commend you for your work.”

He glanced at the hourglass beside his chair, then smiled at me.

“I hope we’ll have another chance to talk like this again someday, my son.”

“Yes.”

“And next time, over a meal perhaps. Now then — your reward…”

He cleared his throat and shouted:

“Ahem! One minute has passed — retainers, enter!”

At his booming command, the side doors of the chamber swung open.
Dozens of retainers filed in, forming perfect rows.

“Hear me! The man captured yesterday is the tutor, Makkel Ishibes!”

As Belmond proclaimed, the retainers bowed their heads and echoed in chorus:

“Makkel Ishibes!”

“The number of maids he murdered — three hundred and twelve!”

“Three hundred and twelve!”

I found myself lost in other thoughts.

Three hundred…? Then we caught him early this time — fewer victims than before.

In the original timeline, Makkel Ishibes had killed over a thousand servants — a notorious criminal.
His tortures were so grotesque they filled entire books, sold across the kingdom for years.
And since it all happened in the most famous prophetic family, of course I remembered it well.

Belmond continued:

“This is no feat a mere child could accomplish!”

“A feat beyond his years!”

“Thus, in recognition of merit worthy of our ancestors—!”

“Recognition!”

Belmond closed his eyes and declared solemnly:

“I shall bestow upon him a Family Relic — and grant him the title of Official Heir!”

“……”

This time, no one echoed.
Even the retainers seemed caught off guard.

The heavy silence made Belmond click his tongue.

“What’s this — another silence vote?”

“……”

“Hmph! It’s like talking to a wall.”

He sighed deeply and repeated himself:

“I said — I shall bestow upon him a Family Relic and grant him the title of Official Heir!”

“……”

Still, no response.
Belmond clenched the crystal orb built into his armrest.

“Fine! So be it! If the retainers stay silent, I’ll call on the back rows myself! Echo loudly!”

He practically shouted now:

“Hear me well! I hereby declare — he shall receive the Family Relic and be made Official Heir! This concerns the Eighth Relic!”

“…Official Heir!”

Only then did the chorus resume — reluctantly.

“…The Eighth Relic!”

I had never seen such an odd decision-making process before.
In the original timeline, I’d been banished after yesterday’s events.

The patriarch’s position is not an easy one, I thought.

But still, it wasn’t a hollow title.
Outwardly, he held authority comparable to a king — a seat many called a dream.

Once the echoes died down, Belmond massaged his temples and spoke:

“Retainers, you may now speak freely.”

Immediately, chatter broke out among them.

“Ah, so it’s for the Eighth! That’s fine, then.”

“Yes, that position’s harmless enough.”

“Seems we worried over nothing.”

“Oh, come now, none of us would dare defy the patriarch.”

“Of course not — just saying, that’s all.”

“Watch your tongue, Rikamia!”

“Well, the Eighth Relic can be given to anyone. If anything, receiving it means he’ll never be given another — a blessing in disguise.”

“Indeed.”

“That young heir, saddled with the Eighth Relic…”

They glanced at me as they whispered,
their eyes full of pity — like they were watching a sacrificial lamb.

So it’s a dead-end post, huh.

Then I remembered — the one who held the Eighth Relic was mockingly called a half-wit.

Why?

Because the Eighth Relic was utterly useless.
Its function and purpose unknown —
a mere trinket, valuable only because it was called a relic.

Well… I’ll take it anyway.

I knew nothing about the family’s inner politics — not even in my prophetic dreams.
So the best move was to accept this so-called useless relic and step out of danger.
If I lived long enough, I could always climb to the patriarch’s seat later.

That much, I’d learned the hard way — from the day I was cast out with nothing.

“Then I humbly accept this honor.”

I knelt.
Father looked down at me with sorrow in his eyes.

“…Very well.”

Clink.

Something shimmered from his hands, floating toward me.

A ring?

A Family Relic — I’d only ever heard of them.

Fitting, for a house that could decide the fate of nations —
the relic radiated an overwhelming aura, warping the air around it.

“Take it. Once you wear it, you shall truly be a recognized heir of the Great Prophetic House.”

“Thank you.”

I slipped the ring onto my finger.

“……”

“Is it done?”

“Yes.”

Nothing happened.

As expected — no reaction at all.
The retainers began murmuring again.

“So it’s decided, then.”

“Tch. He could’ve refused at least — fool.”

“That’s the end of Allen, I’d say. What’s his line again?”

“Born of a concubine — commoner’s blood. The mother died in childbirth.”

“No lineage, no patron. No need to bother with him anymore.”

“Agreed.”

While they mocked me, I stared blankly at the ring —
and then…

What… is this?

For an instant, an overwhelming vision flashed before my eyes.
A flood of sword strikes — countless forms, each distinct.

The strikes of every opponent I had ever faced as a mercenary king.
Their killing intent, rhythm, breathing, timing, the scent of the blade — even the faint warmth of the steel.

All of it, a storm of memories, rushed through my mind in an instant.

What… was that?

I didn’t know why.
But somehow, I felt the Eighth Relic wasn’t as worthless as it seemed.

I blinked, still staring at the ring.

“The Eighth Relic… huh.”

Maybe —
this wasn’t such a bad gift after all.

*

Training was anything but fun.

It might sound absurd coming from someone who’d once been called the Mercenary King, but forcing strength and skill into this weak, unfamiliar body felt foolish beyond measure.

Whish! Whish!

At least I knew exactly where I was headed.

Since becoming an official heir, I’d devoted myself entirely to sword practice.
Knowing the future alone wasn’t enough — I needed power.

To recover the combat prowess I’d once had.

It wasn’t that we lost because of one wrong prophecy… The difference was in pure strength.

I clenched my teeth, recalling the face of the Demon King, and swung the wooden sword down hard.

“Twelve thousand!”

Whsssh!

After the last swing, my grip failed.
My palms stung too much to continue.

Clatter—

Sweat pooled around my collarbone, dripping down my chest and abdomen.

Panting, I closed my eyes and calmed my body using mana techniques —
sending a cool current through every nerve, sharpening my senses.

From a distance, I could clearly hear the voices of the apprentice heirs watching me.

“So, the official heir gave up prophecy entirely, huh? Maybe he aimed for the Eighth Relic just to loaf around.”

“Yeah — where’s his ambition? Who would even call that guy an heir?”

“Careful. Save the insults for when we’re outside.”

“Still, seeing him swinging a sword here, in the middle of the prophetic house… What is this place, a stable for sword-wielding brutes?”

Their voices were full of contempt.

Only months ago, I’d been the disgrace of the family — and now, I was a formal heir.
It must’ve infuriated them.

And since the Makkel case, I hadn’t produced a single prophecy.
Just training, day after day — no wonder they hated me.

No wonder this house of prophets fell into ruin, with candidates like these.

I sighed softly — a sound too quiet for anyone to hear.

But then, another voice — deeper, dignified — cut through their chatter.

“The apprentice heirs have a point.”

It was a young man’s voice — confident, noble, carrying authority.
He walked straight through the line of heirs toward me.

“A man should have a purpose. To reject one’s destined role — is that not folly?”

I opened my eyes and turned around.

“An official heir, are you?”

“Yes. Your antics were echoing through the building, so I came to see for myself — Allen Lasarc.”

He was tall — over two meters — with long golden hair and a strikingly handsome face.
A man like that could only be one person.

“…An honor to meet you, Lord Baren Lasarc.”

“I’d rather not accept a bow from someone drenched in sweat. You may rise.”

His name was Baren Lasarc —

One of the official heirs of the prophetic house…
and one of the very men who, in the last timeline, ruined prophecy itself —
and brought about humanity’s defeat.